_To Ariste._

ARISTE! soon to sojourn with the crowd, In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go; Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud. I go: but still my soul remains with thee, Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms, Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see, And every pulse will vibrate with alarms. When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale, When envy at a rival's beauty sighs, When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail, And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes, I turn my wearied soul to her for ease, Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET II.

Be his to court the Muse, whose humble breast The glow of genius never could inspire; Who never, by the future song possest, Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. Let him invoke the Muses from their grove, Who never felt the inspiring touch of love. If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view, Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, Where only from the minstrel praise is due, I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays, My Muse, ARISTE, would be found in you! And need I court the goddess when I move The warbling lute to sound the soul of love?

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET III.

Let ancient stories sound the painter's art, Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, 'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart, And every bosom bounded with alarms. He cull'd the beauties of his native isle, From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, From some the lovely look, the winning smile, From some the languid lustre of the eyes. Low to the finish'd form the nations round In adoration bent the pious knee; With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd, Whose skill, ARISTE, only imaged thee. Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek The charms that blossom on ARISTE's cheek!

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET IV.

I Praise thee not, ARISTE, that thine eye Knows each emotion of the soul to speak; That lillies with thy face might fear to vie, And roses can but emulate thy cheek. I praise thee not because thine auburn hair In native tresses wantons on the wind; Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair, Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: 'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won, That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest; Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast, As the soft radiance of the setting sun, When varying through the purple hues of light, The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.

BION.

* * * * *

SONNET V.